


Country Matters

by fiendlikequeen



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Come Eating, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Pregnant Sex, Vaginal Sex, literally just: francis eats ann out while james watches, pretty vanilla tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29378031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: Newlywed James Clark Ross is in dire need of respite; luckily, his ever-loyal Francis is always there to offer aid.My addition to the Terror Rarepair Week, for the prompt: "Don't pretend..."
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Ann Coulman Ross, Francis Crozier/Ann Coulman Ross/James Clark Ross
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Country Matters

**Author's Note:**

> This is just annrossier smut, mostly between Ann and Francis, but James is there to lend a helping hand! This fic has been mouldering away, unfinished, in my drafts for a while now - along with four other annrossier fics. It felt far too self-indulgent to post, but when else can you post such things if not during a rarepair fill? 
> 
> Many thanks to the Terror Rarepair Week for giving me the much-needed inspiration to finish and post it!
> 
> Title from Hamlet, of course.

Francis returns from an afternoon walk to come upon a crisis in development. He has no sooner doffed his coat and hat and meandered toward the parlour in search of his hosts – and perhaps a cup of tea and a biscuit or two – when there is a commotion.

“Francis!” That is James’s voice, followed directly by the man. He comes tumbling out of the parlour, as disarrayed as Francis has ever seen him. “Francis. Lord, but I am pleased to see you. I am in dire need of your assistance.”

Francis is all confusion, at first, at the sight of James in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat buttoned wrong, his hair wild and stock vanished to parts unknown. Then James seizes him by the shoulders and Francis finds himself shoved bodily into the parlour to behold the lady of the house reclining upon the sofa.

James shuts the door behind them. “This woman,” he says, waving his hand toward his wife, “will be the death of me. She is quite determined to kill me – she and her _demands.”_

Ann, for her part, is flushed pink and giggling. She regards James, first, with a coquette’s sidelong gaze; then she turns it upon Francis, and he must hide a grin behind his hand.

“Surely not,” he says, trying to form some sort of frown.

“As much as it pains me to admit any flaw in my wife, yes,” says James. His pantomime of vexation is more convincing than Francis’s, but he is still no Covent Garden actor, and there is a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “She has no regard for her husband’s health. I offer all I can and yet there is a demand for _more._ She is prepared to ruin me for the sake of her satisfaction.”

Francis cannot help the laugh that claps out of him at this; then he coughs, and composes himself. “Truly? I cannot believe this of her. Lady Ross, how do you answer this charge?”

She, too, has to stifle her laughter before she can reply. “I grant that I have…needs. Especially in this delicate condition,” she adds, pressing a hand to the hidden swell of her belly, where Francis and James – and the two of them alone – know a child is beginning to grow. “But is it not the duty of my husband to satisfy them?”

“‘Satisfy them,’” James parrots back. His grumbling is genuine now, as he trails off into a mumble: “Satisfy them, yes – every night and in the mornings and afternoons, heedless of my aching-”

“Indeed,” Francis agrees. “But you must understand his advanced age, and his-”

“‘Advanced age?’ Have you forgotten your own, old man?”

Francis arches his brow. “Mine is not the point of contention here, but yours.”

James gives a low huff of irritation, though his eyes are sparkling with good humour. “I submit that even the youngest buck with vigour to spare could not satisfy her,” he pronounces. “And so, dear Frank, I ask for your assistance.”

Francis glances between Ann and James, to ensure that he understands what is being asked.

“If,” Ann adds, with all the playfulness quite gone out of her, “you consent to give it, Francis. We would not presume upon you if it caused discomfort. I – we – would not lose your love for this. For anything.”

Francis cannot quite name the feeling this inspires. He crosses the room to sink to his knees the way a subject might humble himself before his queen. He takes her hand in both his own and kisses it. “Lady Ross,” he says. “I hope you understand that I am yours in anything. You have but to require something of me and I will give it. You and James equally.”

The smile he receives for this pronouncement is bright enough to shame the noonday sun. From behind them, James gives a far more earthly sort of chuckle, clapping Francis on the shoulder.

“Did I not tell you? Francis can always be relied upon,” says James. There is a familiar and much-loved pride in James’s voice, and as he turns a fond gaze upon Francis, Francis’s heart swells and does its best to batter its way right out of his chest.

Ann reaches forward to stroke her fingers through Francis’s hair. “ _Dear_ Frank,” she sighs, quite happily, “what would we do without you?”

For her esteem, he takes that hand and presses another kiss to it – as if he is about to ask her for a dance, and not debauch her in front of her husband.

“I endeavour to be worthy of your trust. Always,” he adds.

Ann smiles, and the fondness in her eyes is so excruciatingly lovely that Francis cannot hold her gaze, and casts his own backward to seek out James’s ever-present comfort. He finds James watching him with that same patient adoration, and has to wipe his eyes lest he weep in front of the Rosses.

“Go on, then,” James commands. He settles onto the sofa, too. “If you keep her waiting she will become quite peevish and that is best avoided-”

He breaks off when Ann aims a good-natured swat at him. “Don’t pretend,” she chastises him, with no true venom at all, “that Francis isn’t as much doing _you_ a favour as me.”

James chuckles at that. It seems best to proceed, however, and Francis does so gladly.

Francis draws up Ann’s petticoats, unconcerned with creasing them – James, it seems, has already done a thorough job of rumpling her dress. Every inch that is revealed is more appealing than the last, and has his untouched, eager prick filling swiftly. Francis feels, somewhat desperately, as though he must kiss every part of her.

He presses his mouth to her delicate, stockinged ankles, first; then her slim calves; last, those creamy-white thighs, soft and warm and without a hint of blemish. He kisses the inside of each one as he conveys her legs over his shoulders, arranging her so that her heels are braced against his back. He insinuates his palms under her, pulling her forward so that he can spread her legs and proceed to his true goal.

Already, he can hear the roughness of her breathing – echoed, deliciously, by James’s own panting – as he pushes her skirts up over her hips. Her drawers are notably absent, and Francis is confronted at once by the bewitching sight of her: that pink, glistening cunny, with its rose-petal folds, and the dark, gleaming curls at the meeting of her thighs.

He is overcome at once with a desire to taste her; he offers but one kiss to the little bud above her entrance before he slips his tongue inside.

Ann’s breath hitches and her hand lands in Francis’s hair. His cock, now fully hard, gives an eager twitch.

A bitter taste lingers on his tongue, the sharp tang of a man’s spend. Francis dips his tongue within her again, to check – but the sour, salty relish of it is unmistakable.

His own prick produces a rill of excitement at this, sure to stain his drawers if not his trousers, too. “Is that-”

She nods. She is biting her lip, flushed, and watching with a hooded, side-eyed gaze. She cannot look Francis in the eye. James, however, does – his eyes blaze as Francis bends his head once more.

Francis thrusts his tongue in deep, seeking out every trace of James’s seed, licking it out and swallowing it down. By the time he is done, Ann is wet with his spit and her own slickness both. She is writhing against him, pressing herself against his face – Francis has to put his hands on her thighs, offering a few soothing strokes to her skin and then holding her down when her movements threaten to suffocate him.

“Please,” she says. “Please, Francis, please-”

James’s hand is on Ann’s thigh, too, his fingers resting over Francis’s and his thumb over the back of Francis’s hand, rubbing circles.

When Francis obliges Ann by flattening his tongue and drawing it over that sensitive little bud above her folds, Francis finds himself gripped both by the hair and by the hand, by James and Ann both - anchored here, in this place, by these two people he loves.

He is so grateful for this. For their steady love, and their trust, and their esteem. He redoubles his efforts upon Ann, as if he can make his gratitude known by pleasing her like this.

He sets up a rhythm, steady and firm, alternating between sucks and licks and broad, flat sweeps of his tongue. James’s taste lingers in his mouth, but it is almost all Ann, now – her slickness and her heat, the trembling of her thighs, the way her soft sighs have given way to deeper, throatier groans, both her hands on the back of his head, pressing him closer. Francis works diligently, sparing only one hand to palm himself through his trousers.

Suddenly, James’s grip on Francis’s hand tightens, and Francis looks up to see Ann’s lips devoured in a biting kiss, James’s other hand dipping between her heaving breasts. She moans into James’s mouth, before breaking away to plead:

“Francis. _Frank._ Please, your-”

He thinks it a request for more, and commits himself to his task with yet more fury, but then there is James’s hand on his cheek.

“Francis,” he says, lifting Francis’s head away. Ann’s hips twitch up, clearly mourning the loss of Francis’s mouth. “She wants – she wants you inside, if you’ll-”

Francis immediately lets go of Ann’s thigh, two of his fingers crawling toward her slick channel, but James stops him. “Not that. Your – your prick, Francis.”

Ann actually mewls at the very word; Francis glances upward, to see her blushed scarlet and panting, her dark curls disarrayed about her face. She bites her lip and nods. “If you want,” she says, her voice small and endearingly bashful, for a woman whose cunt Francis has spent what feels like the better part of an hour eating.

He kisses the inside of her thigh. Offers a smile with a mouth he is sure is pink and full with his effort and glistening with her slick. “Of course.”

That is all it takes for him to be hauled up – by both Rosses, James with his hands under Francis’s armpits, Ann clutching at his waistcoat – and disposed of in Ann’s vacated spot on the sofa. His arse no sooner hits the cushions but she is tearing at his flies, drawing out his cock with a practiced hand.

She seems pleased by what she finds, palming Francis’s shaft to give him a few quick strokes. Even this is almost intolerably pleasant, and Francis finds his head hitting the sofa’s back before he even hears his own groan.

“My, my,” drawls James, with a look at how Francis’s prick is already hard and drooling happily in his wife’s grasp, “enthusiastic, aren’t we?”

Francis lifts his head, about to level a disdainful look James’s way, but Ann is throwing one leg over Francis’s lap, fisting her free hand in her skirts and drawing them out of the way. She lines up the head of Francis’s prick with her entrance and in one smooth motion settles onto it.

Francis’s cock is swallowed eagerly; the wet, clenching heat of it is enough that Francis has to brace his forehead against Ann’s and his hands on her hips to keep himself from spurting then and there. He cannot restrain a moan, however, which deepens and lengthens when Ann braces her weight on her toes and begins to move. At this she gives a very gratifying cry and throws back her head to reveal her long, white throat.

Francis is overcome by a desire to put his mouth to it, which he does. The moment he hears her breath catch in a whine, he sets his teeth against her pulse point, to suck a small bruise there.

For her part, Ann sets up a swift pace, anchoring her fists on Francis’s chest as she claws at him through his clothing. She bounces happily but determinedly, with her hair flying and her face pink, like a horsewoman exercising a spirited animal.

“Good, eh?” asks James, over the cacophony of groans wrung from both parties thanks to Ann’s relentless work.

Francis spares him a glance, finding the other man’s gaze fiercely bright. James’s hand is gripping Francis’s thigh now as he had been Ann’s – more tightly, surely, and Francis knows that when he undresses James’s claim will be bruised into his skin.

“Christ, yes,” Francis says, but Ann is answering too, she is saying something-

“Please, Francis, I’m-”

“Yes, darling-” Francis smooths one hand up her back to draw her nearer, till she puts her arms around his neck and clings to him. _That’s James’s child,_ he thinks, as the tiny swell of her four-months child presses against him. _He is inside her now – I am too –_

He _must_ kiss her, and he does, licking into her mouth and swallowing the sighs he receives. “Can you taste yourself?” he asks, when they part. She whimpers an affirmative. “And him, too?”

The motions of her hips are stuttering, and she moans. “Yes, yes, Frank-”

Francis grips her waist hard as he drives into her from below. He meets every one of her wild movements with a thrust of his own. Every stab of his hips forces a gasp from her, each one breathier and more delicious than the last. As her rhythm becomes Frantic, Francis bends his head to kiss her heaving breasts, before licking his way up her neck to catch her lips once more.

She moans into Francis’s mouth, and he into hers. They kiss like longtime lovers: messily, easily, and confident in their possession of each other. Beside them, James offers encouragement, one hand still on Francis’s thigh and the other linked with Francis’s on Ann’s hip.

By the time Ann’s moans have become little screams – so loud that Francis is _quite_ certain she may be heard below stairs, and possibly on the street, too – Francis is skirting the edge of his climax.

“Close?” he asks, when he feels as though he can spare his mouth from the delightful task of kissing every part of her he can reach.

“Yes, Francis, yes, _please-”_

She breaks off because Francis cannot resist kissing her again. He kisses her as her rhythm stutters and finally stills, her whole body trembling, her wet cunt clenching mercilessly around Francis’s cock.

The slick cinch of it is too much – Francis empties himself inside Ann, a few ragged, final thrusts driving his seed home. She gives a few hurt-sounding cries at this, all of which Francis is happy to kiss from her gasping lips.

Eventually, Francis slumps against the sofa’s back, Ann in a heap atop him. His softening cock is still inside her. For a few minutes, there is nothing in the world save this – James, Ann, and Francis, their combined heat and panting. Then Francis is dimly aware of the sweat drying on his skin, of the cramp beginning in one leg, of the ache in his back.

Ann parts from him with a final sigh, lifting one leg, and all three of them watch as Francis’s cock slips from her in a rush of slick and seed.

Francis ought to be ashamed of the filthy sight; but the sound James makes at it is far too satisfying, and now Ann is settling into his arms once more, dripping on Francis’s thigh and clearly heedless of her stained petticoats and his sweat-marked shirtsleeves.

“Well?” asks James, at last. “Are you at last appeased, woman?”

Ann cranes her neck to kiss James, first. Then she returns to Francis. The kiss she gives him is deep, slow, and lasting. When she pulls back, she smiles.

“For now,” she says, and it feels like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic relies upon an AU where Francis doesn't go on his Sad European Vacation in 1843-1845, and instead stays with the Rosses in London. Presumably getting his back blown out so good that he decides to retire from the Navy and remain in England, happy and entirely alive.


End file.
